


a house for pain

by The Master of the Deck (officiumdefunctorum)



Series: on wednesdays we whump [1]
Category: Wheel of Time - Robert Jordan
Genre: Body Dysphoria, Drabble, Gen, Memories, Panic Attacks, Post AMoL, Post-Canon, Self-Harm, Whump, on wednesdays we whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:27:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23031673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/officiumdefunctorum/pseuds/The%20Master%20of%20the%20Deck
Summary: "Sometimes, pain is all that lets you know you're alive."-Lews Therin Telamon
Series: on wednesdays we whump [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1661389
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17





	a house for pain

**Author's Note:**

> You didn't think he'd just get to be happy, did you?
> 
> (Created as part of the "On Wednesdays We Whump" for WoT Trash discord. Invite at the end!)

Rand missed the pain.

Leaving Shayol Ghul had left him with limited options for destinations. With no desire to see the destruction that had been made of the Borderlands under his poor leadership, Rand had struck south, well away from the Field of Merrilor and the ghosts of the dead.

After those first fascinated, elated days, finally being free from the weight of expectation and everything to do with being The Dragon Reborn, the sensations and oddities of Moridin’s body had started to creep in.

_No, this is my body, Moridin left it of his own will. I survived. I died, and I lived._

Had he, though? Had Rand al’Thor survived?

The longer Rand stared at the unfamiliar blemish on his forearm, a pinkish freckle that stood out against the paleness of Moridin’s body—no, his, _his_ , burn it—the more Rand believed that he had died in the Pit of Doom.

These were not his hands, the memories in his head, from thousands of years ago, were not his, the horrifying power that he hadn’t touched since lighting his pipe on the day his pyre burned was not the familiar rush of _saidin_.

It was not _his_.

The snake that lurked in his chest, slithering through his guts and slowly constricting his lungs for the past days grew tighter, and Rand tried to slow his breath. Rand tried, but now even the sound, the _sensation_ of his own exhalations was so violently foreign to him that it felt like rape just to breathe. 

The mark on his arm seemed to itch and writhe. It did not belong to him, it was not Rand’s, it was Moridin’s.

_I am not you, I am me!_

The memory of Lews Therin’s voice hit him with a viciousness unrivaled by any sword thrust or blow of a hammer, and Rand cried out as the _fear_ came rushing in.

Ants crawled beneath Rand’s skin, like all his muscles and skin might slough away to escape the tainted bones keeping him together. Sickness swamped him and Rand could only gasp in more hateful breaths of air.

There was blood, and Rand realized he was screaming. Screaming and screaming, in denial, in fear, in desperate rage, and his belt knife was in his hand.

 _Pain_. There it was. Like the flame inside the void, it blossomed in his skin and _spread_. Rand could have laughed, and might have laughed, he couldn’t be sure.

Something like coherence returned to him, and Rand dropped the knife in the grass, his breaths coming now hoarse and ragged as he looked at what he had done to himself.

Shame curled in his belly, and he slowly cradled his bloodied, sliced arm against his stomach. Through the blood, Rand could see that the little pink mark was now gone, lost in a series of ragged, shallow cuts across pale skin.

It _hurt_ , and Rand savored the hurt, the sharpness of it, the sting and reality of it.

Like a manifestation of memory, Rand recalled all the wounds he had taken, the losses, the guilt, the darkness and cruelty he had endured—the box the box _the box_ —and _that hurt too_.

Light, how it _hurt_. 

Gasping, Rand let out a single sob, clutching his arm tighter to himself. It wasn’t the same hurt, it wasn’t the deep, visceral pain of the wound he’d born in his side for over a year, or even the burning chill of the dragons he’d worn on his wrists. It wasn't the aching of bones and joints that had never left him after his days held captive doubled up in a trunk.

It was enough, though. Enough to know that he—the _he_ , Rand al’Thor—had lived. That he was himself. That inside of him still lived all the days and weeks and months of pain he had suffered. Suffered, and set aside, ignored.

Now, though. Now, he bled. Oh, how he _bled_.

Yes, he still was Rand al’Thor. His flesh was his own, a house for the pain it had not endured, but the soul within most certainly had.

_Only the dead feel no pain. Lighter than a feather, indeed._

Cradling close his cuts, pressing pain against pain, Rand squeezed his eyes shut, bowed his head, and wept. 

**Author's Note:**

> join the [Wheel of Time Trash discord](https://discord.gg/XUvCR2z) for shipping, fic, prompts, headcanons, and general flailing about this stupid series that we all love for some reason


End file.
